


Blood and Oil

by TicEnchantedToc



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Found Family, Gen, No Beast/Adam, Not A Shipfic, some OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TicEnchantedToc/pseuds/TicEnchantedToc
Summary: Lumiere DuPont has lived his entire life in the finery of a noble.  Wine, dances, what more could a young man ask for?But one fateful winter's night, a gruesome curse rips all of that away from him.  There is only one chance for him to be himself again: learning to truly love someone else.  As all hope seems lost, his path crosses with another cursed soul.
Relationships: Cogsworth (Disney)/Original Female Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Striking the Match

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first posted fic in a very long time and my first on Ao3! Blood and Oil was an idea I had several months ago, but rereading Serena Valentino's "The Beast Within" really inspired me to finally try writing it. I'm hoping to capture a similar feeling of gothic romanticism with this story, but more importantly, I hope you enjoy it!

Flurries of snow swirled outside the tall windows, cutting through the indigo sky. But within the DuPont manor, all was warm and glittering. The orchestra swelled with each twirl of the dancing maidens, their ruffled skirts and thick sausage curls spinning. Lumiere leaned against one of the chilly pillars encircling the ballroom, absentmindedly swirling his glass of wine as a faint smile brushed across his lips. A lovely house, lovely people, what more could a handsome young noble wish for? 

“Oh Romeo, Romeo, why art thou Romeo not dancing the night away?” His sister’s familiar voice sneered behind him. 

He sighed, his eyes never leaving the spiral of dancing couples. “Lorena, must you pester me on such a perfect night?”

She huffed and nudged his side, sloshing a few drops of wine onto his polished shoe. “I’m serious, Lumiere. You ought to dance with Babette at least once; you know as well as I do that she’s been upset with you lately.” 

Lumiere rolled his eyes, waving her away with his free hand. “France’s finest ladies are all here tonight. Babette is lovely, but she will always be here.”

Her eyebrows furrowed together, a childish pout settling on her face. “She is your _fiancee_. Do you not see how that is a priority?” 

He scoffed, turning to leave, but the clicking of her shoes and the heat of her eyes on his back pursued him through the gala. Lumiere had had quite enough of meddlesome sisters and boring wedding planners. He was still barely twenty! Why should he tie himself down when the world had so many wonders left for him? 

Lorena was still calling after him, her voice sharp and laced with anger. Whatever new argument she had, he could not be bothered to listen to it. He was her elder, after all, and the future owner of this very estate. Perhaps it would do her some good to listen to _him_ for a change. Eventually, the music drowned out her voice, and - discarding his glass on a nearby table - he slipped in among the dancers, allowing the thin, pale hands of a young woman to land in his. 

After a final quick glance over his shoulder, Lumiere turned to face her. She was slightly taller than him and just as thin, her golden curls cascading around her shoulders and hugging her cheeks. She had the faintest of confident smiles, which softened her otherwise sharp face. Her eyes seemed to glow beneath the light of the crystal chandelier, and he couldn’t resist smiling with her.

“May I ask your name?” 

“Agathe,” she answered. 

"Agathe," he echoed. "It's as elegant as you are, mademoiselle." 

She ignored the compliment and returned his question, “Yours?”

He tugged her slightly closer until their noses were almost touching, his breath brushing her lips. “Lumiere DuPont, man of the house.”

“I did not know the DuPont family had such a charming heir.” Her words had a slight edge, as though she truly did know and was only toying with him. Her emerald eyes seemed to be scanning him like a lion measuring its prey. She reminded him of Babette in that way, beautiful but dangerous. 

And he _liked it_. 

He twirled her throughout the shining ballroom until his legs felt heavy and each tired breath lifted his entire chest. For the first time that night, his mind had drifted far from thoughts of his upcoming marriage and all that poppycock. How wonderful to just feel free again and follow his heart’s every whim! Yet he knew it could only last for this one night. His heart ached at the thought of letting such a beautiful woman, who inspired such liveliness within him, slip away like a ghost into the snowstorm. As he spun her around time and time again, it became all the more clear that _he_ was the one orbiting _her_ , a desperate moon clinging to its world.

His heartbeat roared over the orchestra’s delicate flutes and singing violins, and he could not bear it any longer. Wrapping both of his arms around her waist, he pulled her tight against him until their lips met. She grabbed his vest in fistfuls, but - as quickly as he’d embraced her warmth - she shoved him away. 

“Have you gone completely mad?” She spat, her face flushing red.

“If either of us has taken a sudden turn for insanity, it’s you.” he snapped in return, his mind still reeling from the kiss and the accusation. 

“You think me so naive and foolish that I wouldn’t know who you are? That you’re engaged to be married to Comtesse Bellrose in the spring? That your passions are hot but melt just as quickly? You are flighty as a bird and with the fox's silver tongue!” 

His lips twisted into a snarl. The audacity! “What is the meaning of this, you deceitful witch?”

Her eyes narrowed, their gleam turning sinister. A faint magenta glow swirled around her fingertips as the white light swallowed the emeralds in her eyes. “Your heart is cruel, Lumiere. Your passions will burn you from the inside out, melting you away to a shell of your former self. You will bear the pain of all who knew you. If you cannot learn what it truly means to love, you will only have yourself to blame for your slow, agonizing death!” 

He stood, frozen and dumbfounded, watching her golden curls vanish among the crowd. In all his years of philandering, he had never heard a woman speak so harshly to him. Her speech echoed within his skull, and her glowing eyes burned in his memory. Had he been correct in calling her a witch, a Fury sent to smite him for his happiness? What had he done to deserve such a sentence from Hell itself?

As his face grew hot with panic, a realization slowly shuddered through each bone of his body. Despite her words, Lumiere felt no different. Yes, that’s all they were: harmless words spoken in anger. He couldn’t help but laugh, doubling over and clutching his knees. How foolish he had been to believe such a theatrical farce! 

Still, he had little desire left in him to dance. He slipped out of the ballroom and into the startlingly dark and silent hallway. A shudder passed through him, and his mind ventured back to thoughts of witches lurking in his home to cast spells on him. He quickly shook his head. He refused to believe in witches, and even if he did, he certainly was not fool enough to be duped by one. It must’ve been an effect of the wine, he figured. He would sleep it off and feel like himself again by dawn. 

His shoes clacked faintly on the tile as he wound up the steps to the east wing. A single candelabra cast the hall in soft golden light, his gangly shadow walking alongside him. He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob when a sharp voice gave him pause. 

“Well, there you are.”

“Babette-”

Her glare burned into his back. “You avoided me all evening, but now I find you slinking back to bed without so much as a goodnight.”

“It’s late,” he muttered. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I’ve had enough of these excuses, Lumiere. We’ll talk now.”

He sighed, finally turning to face her. Her arms were crossed, and the candlelight cast eerie shadows across her pale face. “Fine then. Let’s talk.”

“Ever since our engagement, I’ve seen you less and less.”

“I’m a busy man-”

“Too busy for one dance, for a good morning kiss, for breakfast on the terrace? It’s like you’re _trying_ to avoid me!”

“Well maybe I am!” He barked, his face flushing hot. “You were different when I fell in love with you. You were beautiful and exciting, and I wanted nothing more than to make you mine.”

“I _am_ yours! I love you, and I’ve been nothing but faithful to you.” Her voice hardened, and a cold scowl settled upon her face, “You are the one who has changed. You’re distant and sour, and I’d be shocked if you knew how to love at all!”

“Enough! You clearly don’t care about me and what I want!” He bellowed. “I will hear no more of you crazed women’s accusations tonight!”

The burning sensation consumed his entire skull, and as half of his vision blurred a searing red, he could almost smell smoke in the air. His head was pounding and numb all at once, a pain like nothing he had ever felt before. A hand flew to cover his face. He screamed as the skin burned his fingers, tugging them away. Something pale and waxy dripped from his fingertips, sizzling when it hit the rug. 

He looked up at Babette with his good eye. Her anger had melted into terror, and she shakily stepped away from him. 

“Babette-” 

She turned and sprinted down the hall. He staggered to his door, clutching at his doorknob with both hands. When he finally jiggled it open, he rushed to his dresser and rummaged for a mirror. He reached for it but froze when he saw his face staring back. If he could even call it his face anymore… His hair had fallen loose around his shoulders, and its chestnut hue had faded to waxy, dripping ivory. A hot glob of it had melted over his left eye, resting in the divot left behind. 

Agathe’s words echoed in his mind, “ _Your passions will burn you from the inside out, melting you away to a shell of your former self._ ” 


	2. 4/24

4/24

Today was… very long. I spent most of my day watching the garden and, if I am honest with myself, forgot several meals. Yet, I feel nothing. I have felt no hunger in these past days, only a deep lethargy. I suppose that is fortunate though, as I have not seen Beatrice in this time either. I’ve nothing to do with my time but ponder now, and I have found that the inside of my mind is painfully lonely. As a youth, I cherished each moment to take my thoughts far away from the world. Imagining was fun back then. Now all I have to imagine is the past, the way things could have been. How terribly depressing it all is. 

I have spent most of my time imagining how different this would all be if you were still here. Would this suffering have fallen upon me at all? Would it be so terrible if I wasn’t on my own? I know there is no point to wondering when I can never have an answer, but I simply cannot help myself. I have done little but wonder ever since you left and especially since I have been isolated in our villa. This used to be my favorite place in all Europe, but now it feels like a prison. Our little garden, the sound of the waves, the hearth downstairs, it all reminds me of you. I miss you every day. 

To be truthful, I am not sure how much longer I will be able to write. My fingers become stiffer every day. Of course, there isn’t much left to write about anyhow. The only reason I bothered today was to maintain some sense of normalcy in this topsy turvy madhouse. God help me…

C.G.


	3. Lighting the Path

The mirror slipped from Lumiere’s trembling hands, shattering on the floor. He hurried out the door again, tugging a velvet cloak from the handle of his armoire and tossing it over his shoulders. His entire head throbbed with the spreading heat. Through blurry, reddened vision, he raced to the main hall, the warm wax on his fingers sticking to the banister. He rammed his shoulder into the towering doors, and the thick snow rushed inside to pelt his face. If he had done this as a child, the maids would be scolding him up and down the chateau, but the thought of  _ anyone _ seeing him in this state was enough to make him sick. 

His dress shoes slid across the frozen cobblestones, and, as he neared the stables, he clutched his hood as low over his face as he could. A large stagecoach was already waiting outside, two footmen hurriedly pulling the horses back into their harnesses. A couple waited in the snowfall and drew their fur-laced cloaks around their shoulders. He flattened himself against the cold wall of the chateau, pressing his face against the marble and sighing in relief when the heat finally faded. The wind carried the couple’s voices to his hiding place.

“Curse this God forsaken storm! It’s already far too late for travel, and if this keeps up, we won’t return until tomorrow morning.”

His blood ran cold. Of all people for him to happen upon, no one could’ve been worse than Comte Francisque Bellrose. Perhaps he could just run back inside, beg for the pity of his sisters, and construct some elaborate story about him being a bastard so he could disappear to some cozy estate in the countryside. He shook his head quickly. Now was not the time to doubt himself! If this was his best option for an escape, he would have to take it. 

With the night and cloak as his only disguise, Lumiere slipped towards the carriage. He kept his head low and lifted a silent prayer to whatever divine being was watching that he would be mistaken for another servant. The Comte’s eyes burned through his hood, but a patter of footsteps behind quickly drew his attention away. Lumiere’s stomach turned. He had a sickening suspicion of who it was -- who else could it have been, really? 

The thin ice crunched under his shoes as he inched to the back of the coach. One of the servants had left the small storage compartment open, so he wedged himself between the two large trunks and pulled the smallest back in front of his nook. The coach shifted slightly as the family stepped up inside. When the last, faint light disappeared and he heard the latch click shut, a heavy sigh shuddered from his chest. 

The clattering of squeaky wheels surrounded him, but he could still hear the Comte’s incessant complaints. “It is absolute madness that we have to leave at all. If not for that wretched DuPont boy, we could be settled in bed by now.”

“Darling are you sure we must-”

“I will not spend another minute in the same house as that- that MONSTER!” Babette wailed over her mother’s pleas.

His breath caught again, and his arms grew hot. Babette had told her parents about their fighting… about what he had become. In an instant, he became frighteningly aware of the luggage pressed against his sides, of the faint glow warming his fingers and blackening the cuffs of his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could will away the heat with a sharp word or the flick of his hand. 

“I’ll tell you, I knew there was something off about that boy tonight.” The Comte declared with a huff. “It’s just not proper for the heir to run off in the middle of an important gala that way.”

“He was quite moody and lonesome too, like that old Lord Gearhart from the British Isles. I don’t think I saw him dance all night,” the Comtesse mused along. 

Lumiere could practically see the grimace on the Comte’s face from the way he scoffed. “Well, perhaps he’ll vanish off the face of France just like him! Save us all some trouble.”

There was a small sniff before Babette’s soft voice chirped, “Vanished? Papa, what do you mean  _ vanished _ ?"

“Not a soul has heard from the dismal hermit in months, and he hasn’t shown his face in longer. I’d be amazed if he hasn’t rotted away somewhere.”

“How dreadful…” She murmured, her voice almost drowned out by the rumbling and pebble-crunching of the wheels. 

Fear crawled across Lumiere’s skin again, and sweat began to drip from his hairline again. Or maybe it  _ was _ his hair. He shuddered, squeezing his eyes tighter. Was that his fate? To disappear and die alone somewhere in the countryside? To become nothing more than a rumor or a bedtime story to scare children into being good?

A life sentence for one kiss. It just didn’t feel fair.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent lost in his worries, head bumping against the trunk behind him with each rough patch of road, but at some point, he succumbed to darkness. He did not dream. If he did, they were too tangled with his fretful imagination for him to tell them apart. 

When he finally awoke, sunlight had washed into his hiding place. The coach was still, and he could hear the shufflings and distant murmurings of a waking town. With a groan, he untangled his stiff limbs and pushed the smallest trunk aside. As he poked his head out into the fresh air, a wave of calm washed over him. He crawled out of the compartment, his legs wobbly, and gripped his cloak closer to his face. A small part of him wondered how he looked after all these hours. A larger part was too scared to imagine. 

He wandered the stone streets for several minutes, hoping to recognize something before someone recognized  _ him _ . Soon the square, brick buildings fell away, and tall white sails filled the grayish morning sky. If he breathed deeply, he could make out the faint scent of sea salt beneath the smoky stench that clung to his clothes. And with it came memories. 

His mother had brought him to some famous tailor here since he was a child, where he would stand like a terribly bored statue for hours as the fussy little man flitted around him with his needles and tapes. On their sixteenth birthday, he and Lorena had gone on a boating trip around this very harbor. When he and Babette had first started courting, they had had a spring picnic in the park within town. Of course, he could not stay in such a busy place with his current… condition. But at least he had somewhere to start. 

He allowed his feet to guide him back towards the edge of town, pausing as the cobblestones fell away to dirt beneath his feet. If he followed the road, he’d have to find someplace to stay eventually… right? Or would he wander forever like those doomed Greek heroes his tutors had once read to him about?

Still, he had no better choices. With a determined breath that welled up warmth in his chest, he started away from the city, away from everything he’d ever known, and into the shadows of the trees.

He wandered until the sun dipped towards the horizon again, jumping at every bird’s caw or rabbit scampering across the path. Whenever a horse or cart would approach, he ducked behind the thick trees and out of sight. Even if these country peasants wouldn’t recognize him, he figured he was far too molten and inhuman to be seen now. 

The clip-clopping of a horse echoed down the road, and Lumiere - fighting off the orange glow in his veins - slipped behind a gnarled oak. Yet, instead of woods, he found himself standing on a new path he hadn’t seen. A thick layer of leaves had covered it, and vines and roots from nearby plants were reaching to take it over. Still, it was wide enough for a cart, so wherever this road led, no one had been there in quite a while.

So it would be  _ safe _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a new chapter comes more lore for this funky little alternate universe! I've already mentioned The Beast Within in the chapter one notes, but I figured I should shout out another book that's been inspiring me a lot lately: As Old As Time by Liz Braswell. If you haven't read it, I highly highly recommend it. (And I hope my humble fanfic can do justice to these two books and their amazing style.)


	4. 4/25

4/25

The boredom finally became unbearable. Though the stairs gave me great trouble, I made my way to the old family room for some books. My back ached terribly, so I allowed myself to stay there for a few hours. I lit the fireplace and sat in that big armchair you insisted we bring with us when we moved here for good. I’ll admit, I was glad for it today. I brought the books back to my room once I felt better, since I have little else to do but read.

It wasn’t until I left the bedroom that I realized how empty the villa feels now. I still haven’t the slightest idea where Beatrice has disappeared to. Even though I tried to avoid her before, it is still horribly eerie with her gone. And dusty too, of course. If I wasn’t so stiff, I ought to clean the place myself. It’s hard to find much desire to do anything when our house has been practically abandoned. I can only imagine how disappointed you’d be if you saw how pathetic I’ve become. At least I have something to break the monotony now… 

And yet, with how sluggish I have felt, I’m not sure if I’ll even have the energy to read. It feels as though every part of my body is shutting down. I struggled so much with the stairs this morning, who can say if I will even be able to climb out of bed tomorrow? Perhaps I should leave all those books on my nightstand, just in case.

C.G.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone! I like to have a new chapter in progress before I post the one before it, and some overwhelming schoolwork and scholarship applications have really been eating up my spare time and energy. But that's enough about me; I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and feel free to share your thoughts while I work on chapter five!


	5. House of Curses

The trees fell away, and a cold wind tugged his hood from his head. As the sun dipped beneath the sea, the sky and waves glowed the same fiery orange. They broke against the rocky bluff face, echoing back towards him. But his eye was drawn not to the ocean or the sunset.

There was a  _ house _ overlooking the water. 

Dust and frost clouded the windows, and prickly weeds had overgrown the path to the porch. A small garden was tucked against the wall facing the beach, though the flowers had long since crumbled to dust and the bushes to masses of scraggly dead branches. Walls as white as seafoam towered into a second story, but thick curtains obscured his view inside. Lumiere couldn’t help but shudder, despite the still-growing warmth deep in his gut. He had never seen a place in this much disrepair, let alone a home. Would he ever be able to call it that without feeling slightly ill?

He paused at the doorway. It took him a few seconds to remember that there would be no porters now - that there would be  _ no one _ now - and let himself inside. The faint glow around his hair seeped into the dark foyer. Careful to keep one shoulder pressed against the wall, he held a hand in front of him as he may have once carried a candle down to the kitchen at night. Not that he would ever need to carry one now. The thought made him shudder.

The wall disappeared beneath his shoulder, and he almost tumbled into the adjacent room. The faint, pale sunlight peering through the curtains helped him see, and a large hearth stood against the opposite wall, an even larger portrait hanging above. Lumiere tiptoed around the dusty furniture, awkwardly kneeling and then sitting before the fireplace. His hand clung slightly to the fabric of the rug, but after a single tug, he was free to wrap his fingers around the ashen logs still left by whoever had lived here last. The wood glowed orange, and he quickly pulled his hand away. If his own heat had melted over his eye, he didn’t want to consider what a real  _ fire _ could do. 

Leaning back against the foot of the sofa, he unclasped his cloak and fiddled with the buckles of his shoes. He mumbled curses under his breath each time his sticky fingers did not move quite the way he wanted them to. If his sisters saw him like this… A deep sigh rattled through his chest. True, he hadn’t gotten along with them much in the last few years, but he still wished he’d had the chance to say goodbye. 

He tried to remember the last time all six of them hadn’t been mad at one another: his engagement party. He’d helped the twins sneak into the kitchen and steal lemon tarts behind the chef’s back, hiding from the staff in a cramped broom closet to feast until their mother dragged them all back to get ready. Fiametta had spent weeks writing and perfecting a piano piece for the event, and it was one of the few nights he ever remembered seeing Solene dance. He and Lorena had stood on the edge of the ball and gossiped about the other bachelors’ outfits. The youngest Emond boy had looked absolutely outlandish in that gaudy baby blue tailcoat, especially after that drunken baron had dumped his wine all over the poor boy’s lap!

The crackling fire shook him from his reverie, and the remains of his laughter wilted into another, more faint sigh. He struggled to pull off his shoes, finding his stockings had completely burned off, and the melted bottoms of his feet stuck to the thin soles. They were far past ruined by the time both were off, so he tossed them into one of the darker corners left in the room. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Now that the fire had grown, he craned his neck towards the painting. 

It was not of one person, like he’d originally thought, but two. A man and wife, if he had to guess. The man was rather stout, with thick curls framing his pinkish face. If not for his grim frown and the creases bordering his emerald eyes, Lumiere might have mistaken his softer features for those of a child. The lady wasn’t quite as pale as her husband, with a spatter of freckles on her cheeks and nose. Her pale yellow dress had a distinct Queen Anne neckline and modest lace trim that was far more popular in Great Britain than here. Paintings were typically a serious affair, yet she smiled so brightly that it wrinkled her eyes. 

She reminded him of his own mother’s portrait hanging in the dining hall and that confident grin she had refused to hide. Most of the nobility found her quite strange in that respect, a wealthy and - at times  _ frighteningly _ \- competent woman who had never married and raised her six children by herself. Lumiere had never been bothered by her oddness as a child, but as he’d grown and learned the rules of the world… Well, he simply could not understand it. 

He had no way of knowing how long he stayed in the study, watching the flames dance along the old brittle wood, but eventually, his boredom won over his exhaustion. He was no shambling forest creature yet; he deserved a more respectable place to sleep than a dusty rug. Wandering by the light of his own fingers, he picked his way up a staircase. Each step came with the squeak of the floorboards and the sticky  _ schlp  _ each time he pulled his molten feet off them again. 

The stairs opened into a hallway with multiple rooms, so - with a shrug - Lumiere ducked into the closest one first. Deep pinkish light slipped through a gap in the curtains and into the little bedroom. The short bed couldn’t have belonged to a child older than ten. A little doll, with a lacy yellow dress and thick yarn hair, sat perched against the pillow. Lumiere held his breath to avoid choking on the dust, so thick he could smell it, coating every surface. Leaving the door open, he moved on to the next, hopefully more adult sized, room. 

The first thing he saw was the body. A figure, hunched over and almost limp, seated at a writing desk. He almost slammed the door, he almost screamed, he almost did a lot of things, but instead he simply froze. And stared. And the figure did not move. It did not even breathe. 

“Hello?” He had tried to muster courage and authority into his voice, but the word clung to his breath like a scared child. 

Silence. 

With a deep, rattled breath, he inched through the doorway. His eyes never dared to leave the stranger at the desk until his foot bumped against a fountain pen. It rolled back under the desk, too dry to lose even one drop of ink. Standing just beside the strange figure now, he realized it wasn’t so human at all.

Though clothed in a thin spring nightgown and fur-lined robe, it’s body was built from brass plates and silver fittings rather than skin. The robe bulged much too far on its back, as if some sickly protrusion was trying to climb out of its spine. Large, sharp joints connected its fingers down the middle, arched in just the right shape for a pen it no longer held. Thick coils of copper wire had created the illusion of hair around the apparatus’s “head.” Faint cracks divided the jawline like the mouth of a wooden puppet, and a pair of hollow, bulbous glass “eyes” stuck out of its face a little farther than they should’ve. 

A journal was tucked beneath its cold fingers, flipped open to an unfinished page. Lumiere held his hand over it, the golden glow just bright enough for him to make out the shaky - but otherwise elegant - English script.

_ 4/26 _

_ Do you think people can tell when they are dying? Is it the final thought you think, or is it a feeling that slowly grows stronger and stronger until your final breath, and then you understand, “Ah. So this is how it ends.” Or do you ever realize at all? Are you alive and invincible, fresh as spring, one moment and an empty husk the next? I do not know the answers, but I wish I did. _

_ However, I believe, if it is truly possible to know you are dying, then I must surely be dying. Even the smallest movements feel like I must be lifting mountains, and my chest is so heavy I might as well be trying to breathe through molasses. At this rate, I think I would rather die than continue suffering in this wretched shell.  _

_ If there is still a soul in this body of mine, I hope I can see you a- _

The letter trailed off into a thin line, resting beneath a thick brass thumb. Lumiere couldn’t help but shudder. Was this…  _ thing _ alive once? Was it _ still _ alive? His head was spinning; every possibility was more sickening than the last! Twisting as quickly as his viscous legs would allow, he stumbled from the room and slammed the door behind. He didn’t stop until the stairs were far behind him, drooping against the wall for breath. 

He trudged back towards the kitchen, which he remembered briefly passing in his search for the stairs. If nothing else, it would hopefully be the warmest place in the house. Maybe he could just curl up on the floor before the stove like a dejected cat, pretending this was all still a bad dream. Holding one hand high above his head, he ducked inside. It was smaller than his kitchen at home, but plenty nice enough for just him. Beneath the exhaustion and adrenaline and head-spinning nonsense of the day, he finally noticed a faint ache of hunger deep in his gut. 

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Shaking his head, he roamed the edges of the kitchen until he found another door, left slightly ajar, to a smaller room. Maybe a servant’s quarters, he guessed, based on the apron draped over the foot of the bed. A grayish teacup - probably white beneath the dust - perched on the nightstand, crisp withered flowers draped around its rim. He gingerly pulled back the blanket and allowed himself a sigh of relief when no seared fingerprints were left behind. Tossing his cloak over the foot of the bed, he curled into a ball beneath the thin sheets.


End file.
